You'll See Me Again
by Lake of Rage
Summary: Oneshot. MAJOR AZRAN LEGACY SPOILERS! "But, Hershel, don't worry. You'll see me again." Hershel Bronev knows that his mother and father are gone. But he made a promise to protect his little brother, Theodore. And he'll keep that promise no matter what.


_Why do I do this to myself?! WHY?!_

_WARNING! Major angst abound!_

_Also, MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR** SPOILERS **FOR AZRAN LEGACY! SO MUCH SPOILERS! TOO MUCH SPOILERS! BE WARNED!  
_

_As for a disclaimer... I don't own Professor Layton. If I did, I would kidnap Layton and make him do my Pre-Calculus homework for the rest of eternity._

* * *

**You'll See Me Again**

_Run._

That was the sole thought racing through Hershel Bronev's reeling mind as his feet pounded endlessly against the floor. Connected to him through the two's joined hands was a stumbling boy just younger than him, half-running and half-dangling behind his brother. Hershel sprinted as fast as his tiny legs would take him, his sight focused solely on the ground in front of him so that he didn't trip. He _couldn't_ trip. That would bring the Targent men closer, and they would take Theodore away from him. At that thought, he subconsciously tightened his grip on Theo's hand, not willing to let the younger boy fall behind.

_"Mum! Hershel's being a tattletale!" Theo moaned, his black eyes strikingly adorable, if beady and scowling. Chuckles met his statement and he pouted playfully, sneaking in a grin when he thought no one was looking. Across from him sat Hershel, his mahogany eyes glinting as his laughter filled the room, louder than even his parents' combined. Catching a glimpse of the discreet smile on his brother's face, he hastily turned his head, assuring that Theo didn't know he'd seen. If the boy wanted to be sneaky, let him think he was succeeding._

Hershel rounded a tight corner with some difficulty, skidding and scrambling for traction where his shoes were unable to grip the immaculate wood floor. He reeled, so off-balance that it felt as if his feet had been mercilessly jerked out from under him, but recovered quickly and charged on. Theodore tripped and would've tumbled to the ground were it not for his older brother's hand, which kept him half-upright. Their arms pulled taught as the two jerked into motion again. There was no time to be falling; they had to get out of there. _Now_.

Ding-dong._ The doorbell chimed across the room, interrupting their family dinner. All four in the family glanced up, wondering who it could be at this hour. They were a fairly reclusive family, and their neighbors behaved similarly. "I'll get it!" Theo chirped, betraying that he wasn't as upset as he'd led them to believe, and he quickly slid to the floor and trotted over to do just that. He had to jump to reach the doorknob, which Hershel found adorable (not that he would ever admit it), but he finally managed to twist it around with some perseverance and open the door wide. "Hello?" he cried into the darkness. "Who's there?"_

A million thoughts cracked through Hershel's head at the same time as he desperately tried to come up with a plan; to solve this puzzle and get himself and, more importantly, Theo to safety. In the back of his mind, the precocious young boy ran variables past at lightning speed—the size of the house, their current location and speed, the amount of men who were chasing them, which doors did and didn't lock...

_Upon seeing no one, the confused child stepped outside, glancing around but spotting no suspicious figures. Hershel watched from the table, missing the way his father's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Theo, you'll catch cold," his mother scolded gently, trying to coax her younger son back inside, but her words were lost on the boy, who was already overcome with curiosity._

Hershel's footsteps pounded loudly on the floor, joining the cacophony in his eardrums: the pounding of his feet, the pounding of his pursuers' feet, the pounding of Theo's feet, and the pounding of his heart. _Thump. Thump. Thump._ He could practically smell his own pulse. _Thump. Thump. Thump. 'Gotta get away. Gotta run. Gotta save Theo.'_ And there was another corner to wheel around, struggling to keep upright and almost letting Theo's hand slip from his own due to sheer perspiration. _Thump. Thump. Thump._

__Stepping farther into the pitch-black that was the night, Theodore cupped his hands around his mouth to amplify his volume. "Hello?" he called. "He-llo-o? Did someone ring the be_—?_" A smacking sound interrupted him, accompanied by his own shocked yelp that quickly transitioned into a petrified scream. Before anyone could react, his tiny form went shooting back through the doorway from the force of the blow he had taken, crashing into the wall and knocking a framed picture from its place.__

A sharp smack made Hershel yelp and stumble backwards, unexpectedly halted by the simple motion. He clattered to the floor like a discarded doll, Theo pulled down with him, and immediately scrambled back, away from the Targent man looming over them. His nose throbbed and something warm rolled down his face, but he hardly even noticed. _Thump._ No. _Thump._ You failed. _Thump._ Theo will be caught. _Thump._ And it's your fault. The rusty blood he tasted in his mouth was joined by the sour taste of failure.

_Thump._

_Hershel heard nothing for a moment; nothing but his own horrified, choked gasp as he darted from his seat, taking off running before his feet had even touched the floor. "Theo!" he cried, rushing to his brother's side without a second thought. Despite his parents' longer strides, his distress was so great that he reached the boy far before they could, skidding to a stop in front of the boy's defeated form._

_Theo had toppled onto the floor from where he had been hurled cruelly into the wall, and he now lay in a crumpled heap of limbs, trying and failing to prop himself up on trembling arms. Hershel helped the quivering child to his feet and quickly pulled up the younger boy's sweater, trying not to be outraged at the dark bruise already beginning to blossom across his brother's torso. "Are you alright?" was all he could seem to sputter out, and he immediately berated himself for it. Of course Theo wasn't alright. What a dumb thing to say. How incredibly inept._

The man growled and stormed forward, gripping Hershel tightly by the collar and throwing him back. Even as his spine earned a painful jab against the corner of a cabinet on the wall, all he could think in his panic-ridden mind was '_No, Theo!'_ as the two brothers' hands broke apart. In an instant, the previously exhausted boy sprung to his feet, colliding with the Targent thug and exerting just enough force to make him stumble backwards. It was all he needed; without hesitation, he dove for his brother's hand, barely catching it.

And with that, they were off again, the shouts behind them slowly advancing despite their best efforts. They quickly lost their pursuers in the labyrinth of hallways that their house consisted of, but not even the ever-optimistic Theo thought that they'd be able to evade capture for long. They couldn't outrun those three forever, no matter how much they better knew the terrain. But he couldn't just give up now. He had to get Theo to safety. He had to make sure Theo was okay. _Thump. _Where to go? _Thump. _Where to hide? _Thump. _What to do?

_He flinched when boots clomped onto the porch and quickly absorbed Theo into a bear hug, averting the younger boy's eyes from the men who stormed in. He didn't want to scare his brother even further. Odd suits appeared in his peripherals, and he barely registered the way his father and mother stood in front of them, arms spread wide as if to shield them as they ordered the thugs to leave._

_The men screamed back, talking about "Targent" and the "Azran" and something that Hershel could only vaguely comprehend as a threat. "I would never go with you!" He'd been relieved to hear those words from his father's mouth at first. That meant that dad wouldn't leave. Dad could solve this. Dad could make those scary men go away._

There was no longer any time for variables; the men were too fast and he was too slow. Another corner. The next door he came upon, he threw open, pulling Theo in. The large but simple bed, the unfitting serenity of the night sky glimpsed through breezy lavender curtains—it was their parents' bedroom. '_The closet. They have a closet.' _The second he saw it, he charged toward it, practically flinging Theo and himself against the wall. He fumbled with the lock after slamming the door, but it was long broken, so he instead pushed Theo further into the corner, throwing some clothes at the door and hoping they jammed it.

_Then the three Targent agents were running forward and bearing down upon a forth man who was surely not his father, because dad was invincible and tall and strong and dad could solve this. The man who wasn't his father was out-numbered and out-matched by the burly thugs, and one quickly tackled him, pinning him onto the floor and twisting his arms behind his back. "Rachel! Take the boys and run!" the man cried, struggling and squirming to free himself but ending up handcuffed by the odd-suits anyways._

Then, without warning, the door to the bedroom banged loudly against the wall as it was thrown open and the thugs stormed in. Theo flinched and whimpered, burying his face into his older brother's sweater. Hershel responded by carefully wrapping his arms around the younger boy and hiding him from the closet door, afraid it would burst open at any second.

But it never did. The voices outside it came dangerously close at one point, and Hershel had held his breath and tightened his hold for several long moments, but they receded eventually, fading into the distance. Still, he dared not move, unsure whether or not there were still people in the room. He could still hear a distant commotion as the men no doubt tore the place up looking for them.

_Hershel felt himself begin to tear up as a woman—not his mother, he presumed—wheeled around before the thugs could try to pursue her and ran towards them. She seized them by the shoulders, her grip almost bruising, and they found themselves dragged into the next room over. The door was slammed and bolted just in time for the most barrel-chested of the three men to collide with it, shaking it in its hinges. Theo jumped and Hershel pulled him closer, placating his brother through the conviction with which he held the boy._

The minutes dragged past, then warped and merged into hours. They seemed tortuously slow when they were happening, but passed as a breath and a blink when Hershel looked back on them. What time was it? What _day_ was it? He couldn't tell you. They could have sat there for mere minutes, for hours, for days, or for years, and he would never have known the difference.

_The mysterious woman hastily knelt down in front of Hershel—oh, and she looked so much like Mum—and put her hands on his shoulders. __"Hershel," she coaxed tenderly, seeing easily that her son was going into shock. __"Hershel, I know you're scared and you don't know what's going on, but I need you to run and hide Theo, okay? Can you do that for me? You need to hide somewhere so the men can't find you, and don't come out until your father or I comes to say it's safe, okay? You promise? Do you promise, Hershel?"_

Eventually, the ruckus ended, only to restart again what could've been anywhere from minutes to hours later. Huddling closely to his charge, Hershel kept his eyes trained firmly on the closet door. Both children flinched almost violently when they heard voices and footsteps enter the room.

_"But, Hershel, don't worry."_

A small sob escaped Hershel's mouth as he clung to Theo like a lifeline; clung to the only thing he had left.

_"You'll see me again."_

And then the door opened.

* * *

The investigators of Scotland Yard were more somber than they had been in a long while.

It seemed that the call they'd gotten had been too late. When they had gotten there, the mysterious group who called themselves "Targent" was already gone, and so were the four residents of the house: the Bronevs. Leon Bronev, an archaeologist who had recently began rising to fame with a remarkable discovery about the ancient Azran civilization, was presumably the target of the attack, but not the only victim. His wife, Rachel Bronev, was also missing, and she had been the one to call in the first place.

But that wasn't necessarily the reason for their melancholy. Oh, no. That pleasure belonged to Leon and Rachel's kids, Hershel and Theodore Bronev. The two boys, who looked almost disgustingly innocent in the multiple pictures hung around the room, were also missing, presumably having been abducted by Targent as well. At 9 and 5 years old, respectively, they were far too young to lose their freedom to a band of extremist thugs.

So, when one inspector pulled open the closet door of the Bronevs' bedroom, hoping to find some sort of evidence but not holding his breath, he certainly had not expected to see Hershel and Theodore huddled in the corner, very much not missing.

The taller one—Hershel, he assumed—sported an angry red bruise on his cheek and a stream of dried blood under his nose. The younger one—Theodore, was it?—had red, puffy eyes and tears on his face that shone dully in the early morning light. His arms were clutched tightly to his midsection, as if to alleviate the pain he no doubt felt there, and he was clinging to his older brother like he'd die if they were separated.

As soon as he opened the door, both children glanced up in horror and he realized his mistake. Before he could rectify it, though, Hershel had scrambled even further backwards, glaring at him and clutching Theodore protectively. He subtly shifted his shoulders, blocking his little brother completely from the inspector's line of sight.

The inspector immediately went into full-on parent mode, his gaze softening as he knelt down in front of them. "Hey, there," he whispered gently, ignoring the odd looks shot at him from every direction by other inspectors and constables. Still, Hershel's eyes showed nothing but mistrust and hostility. "Do you know who I am?"

For a moment, there was no response. Just as a fellow inspector was about to question his sanity, though, the brunette shuffled further into the corner slightly, muttering, "You're from Scotland Yard. An inspector. Mother called the Yard, so you came to investigate. You're looking for the Targent men." He paused for a moment, then leveled the taller man with a fierce but startlingly intelligent stare; a look that could see past the smile and open arms and peer into his very thoughts. "You're here to help."

He blinked. _'If the kid knows all that, then why...?' _He didn't allow himself to dwell on it for long, because he got the feeling that these kids needed to get to a hospital, especially the littler one, and they certainly weren't getting the medical attention they required here. "That's right," he practically cooed, seeing his peers hurriedly rush to call for the medics. "Hershel, isn't it?" The shaky, dubious nod he got in return was less than a satisfactory answer, and he sighed slightly at the uncooperative child. "Come on, Hershel; we should get you to a doctor—"

A choked cry tore itself free of Theodore's throat and the inspector took a shocked step back as Hershel's grasp tightened on his charge protectively. "No!" he hissed firmly, his eyes displaying clearly that he wasn't planning on budging. "We—we can't leave!"

Flabbergasted, the man felt his mouth open and close multiple times as his brain reeled, trying with little success to process this information. Then his face turned to a contemplative frown as he leaned forward slightly, taking note when the two shifted back accordingly. "Why not, Hershel?" he asked curiously, his voice containing more than a bit of concern. "We're here to help, like you said."

Setting his mouth into a firm line, Hershel determinedly shook his head, steeling his arms around Theodore's body like iron bars, and it became startlingly clear that he would hold on to his brother until the end if need be. "M-Mother... Mother said..." His emotions briefly got the better of him as he recalled just what had happened to his mother, but he quickly stifled the sniffles before they could culminate in tears. "Mother said not to leave until she or Father came to get us. I _promised._"

Somewhere—not even deep inside; just on the surface—he knew. He wasn't even refusing to acknowledge it; he had already accepted it and submitted himself to the facts. Hershel Bronev was not an idiot; he was quite the prodigy, in fact. He knew that his parents were gone; they might never return to this house again. He knew that it was in their best interest to leave the closet and that they would be in no danger; he knew that, logically, they would have to come out sometime.

Hershel Bronev didn't care.

All he cared about was the fact that he'd promised; he'd made a promise to Mother and Father that he'd keep Theo safe, and he'd made a promise that he wouldn't leave his hiding spot until Mother or Father came to get him. He intended on keeping those promises, no matter what he had to do.

The inspector eyed him cautiously, knowing full well that he had to coax the boys out of there but he could hardly just say "Sorry, kid, but your parents are gone and probably dead." He could just see _that_ conversation going _swimmingly. _No; he would have to be more subtle. "Hershel," he muttered, "I know you want your parents to come get you, but they—"

"They're gone," Hershel interrupted, shocking the much older man into silence. "They were abducted by Targent." He looked up with misty mahagony eyes, trying to suppress his tears, and met the man's gaze once again. "They're probably dead."

The crack in his voice was the only thing that slipped past his admirable mental fortifications—walls that had been established over the course of only a few hours because he couldn't _afford_ to be weak right now; he didn't have the _time_. Barricades that were meant to keep his emotions in and other people out, giving him the appearance of apathy—or, at least, as close as he could come. Something deep within him—some instinct that he was eternally grateful for—rumbled words into his mind. _'Don't let them know you're scared. Don't give them the satisfaction.' _Of course, these were Scotland Yard investigators, not enemies, but the same rules applied regardless—just for different reasons.

Then footsteps were once again pounding up the stairs outside the door and medical personnel flooded the room, inquiring as calmly as they could (so not very) after the well-being of the two children that were allegedly holed up in the closet. Children who had been through more than enough and yet still couldn't seem to catch a break. Children who they could _help, _so they'd be _damned _if they didn't.

That was when panic entered the second-smallest Bronev's eyes. The sheer betrayal that he managed to convey through that one fleeting look was enough to break the inspector's heart and send his stomach on a tumble through the rest of his body. But that glance was soon over and his face was once again resolute as he drew himself up in defense of his position, as if they were enemies laying siege on his castle. He didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. Unfortunately, the inspector knew full well what he was insinuating with that posture.

It seemed there would be no helping it.

"They're resisting," he informed the medics quietly, watching them all wince collectively in sympathy. They knew how they would have to handle this situation if it eroded, and it wasn't something that was generally healthy to put a mentally stable adult through, much less a recently traumatized child. Still, if it turned out that the kids weren't to be swayed, they'd have no choice. Judging by the little whimpers of pain that continuously tore themselves from little Theodore's throat and the frantic message that Rachel Bronev had managed to convey over the phone before being taken, the littlest one was hurt rather badly, and they needed to get him treatment.

Even if it meant physically and forcefully removing him straight from his older brother's arms.

He hadn't wanted it to come to this, but there was no other choice. Kneeling down once again, the inspector added a slight edge of warning to his voice, hoping for their sake that it wasn't blatant enough to scare them. He was counting on the older one picking up on it, though, if only enough to know that this was a serious situation. "Hershel," he murmured, "we have to get Theodore to a doctor. Please come out now, or we'll have to make you." There. That was the gentlest way he could possibly put it while still getting the point across.

Both boys met his eyes defiantly and his heart sank. Theodore's eyes were uncertain and terrified, so he looked a lot less sure of himself than he probably intended to. Hershel, on the other hand, very clearly illustrated that they weren't moving until their parents told them to; he was _not_ going to break his promise, no matter what. Even if both of them knew that they had very little choice in the matter.

Theodore was the one that first began to cry when the doctors approached the children, grabbing them gently as they tried to scramble away. Hershel strained in their hold so fiercely, however, that they were forced to tighten their grip to accommodate. "Let go!" he hollered as his twisting form was pulled out of his safe haven. The instant he was dragged across the threshold, his stomach plummeted down to take residence inside his abdomen, turning harshly.

_Thump. _You failed. _Thump. _You failed him. _Thump. _**Again.**

Once they got him out in the open, it was a simple, mechanical task to break the two apart. Physically, at least. The boys were far too small to do anything about it as they peeled Hershel's arms from Theodore and tore them from each other's hold. "Theo! _Theo! _No, put me down! _Put me down!" _Hershel screamed as he thrashed within a medic's grip, his eyes fixated intensely on his kid brother. Theodore, for his part, was sobbing and struggling all the same, but yielding far fewer results thanks to his injury and smaller stature.

As he literally dragged Hershel back to the hospital kicking and screaming, the medic grit his teeth, wondering how on Earth they were meant to check this boy's health when they couldn't let go without him running off instantly. It had already been enough of a pain to get him in a car without him bashing his head repeatedly against the door just to get him to let go. Unfortunately for them both, there only appeared to be one option, which an inspector pointed out as they pulled him into a room and prepared to treat him.

"You'll have to restrain him."

In an instant, the medic's head was snapping around and he was snarling, "Absolutely not. He's just a kid. We can handle him without tying him down."

"He could hurt himself," another medic muttered quietly, staring pensively at the standard-issue padded leather straps on the hospital bed. "He already has." And it was true. He undoubtedly had some sort of concussion now from banging his own head against the car. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

The one who cried the most when the medic reluctantly slid Hershel's wrists into the straps was the medic herself. Hershel did let a few tears fall, much to his humiliation, but as he thrashed frantically, the doctor checking him over had tears streaming down her own face. In the end, the first medic hadn't had the strength, so he'd brought in his backup, although she wasn't faring too much better.

Hershel squirmed and sobbed the entire time they checked him over. Even when they undid the straps, he scrambled away from their touch. Then he turned onto his side, his eyes staring blankly at the wall across from him as the full weight of the past night sunk in, and Hershel Bronev curled into a ball, and cried, and cried, and cried, and cried.

_"But Hershel, don't worry."_

_"You'll see me again."_

Mom...

_...you big liar._

* * *

_*crawls into corner and sobs brokenly*_


End file.
